Shargridge Academy
by honeyyoushouldseemeinacrown666
Summary: Every term there are always new students at Shargridge Academy, but this year is different. highschool AU. Johnlock, Mormor, and various Sheriarty scenes. feel free to R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: ok, here is my re-Written version, sorry for any annoyance or confusion since I changed the original story. thanks, and reviewing would be really helpful, (you don't have to have an FF account to review) thanks!**

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John sighed, exasperated with the teacher as he made another mistake. He gazed aimlessly out of the window for a few minutes before noticing a car pull up at the gates. A tall figure climbed out of one side, apparently shouting at the person in the front seat. A teenage boy slid out of it, arguing with his companion, and swinging a bag over his shoulder. He was clad in the school's uniform, wearing a thin grey jumper over his school shirt and tie. After a few minutes he seemed to give up, abruptly turning and walked quickly towards the main building, stopping mid-sentence. John turned away, unimpressed by the skirmish. Great, another dramatic family in the school.

Sherlock marched past the confused receptionist at her desk and straight to the head master's office, furious at his swung open the door and stood inside, startling the man sitting behind the desk."Mr. Wilberton." The headmaster glared up at him, jerking in his chair. Mr Wilberton bulged out of his chair when he moved and sweat seemed to endlessly flow from his pours.

"Sit."

"I prefer to stand." Sherlock's eyes bored into the headmasters, prompting him to stand as well.

"I've read your file,er," he checked a sheet of paper in front of him,"_Sherlock_, and I'm not impressed. I can to tell you now-"

"That I can't expect to act like I did in other schools," Sherlock interrupted, staring down at Mr Wilberforce, Taking advantage of the height difference between them, "That _your_ school is different, but your wrong. Goodbye." Grinning once the headmaster couldn't see his face, Sherlock span on his heel and strolled out, leaving an outraged headmaster in his wake.

After English John had psychology, which was artfully placed right at the other side of the school. He chucked his notebook into his bag, slung it over his shoulder and followed the rest of the class out of the door. Moping down the corridors, he hesitated before getting the notebook back out, the pen still attached to the ring binder. He flipped the cover back and opened it by the first page. It was his very first sketch, the one he had done the day he had arrived at Shargridge Academy, two years before. It showed his father, out by the gates, pulling a slightly younger John inside. Chuckling to himself as he turned down another corridor, John flicked through the notebook until he was about two thirds into the book, landing on his latest addition. Pulling out the Biro, he added some extra shading and tone to the drawing until he was happy with it.

John didn't stop sketching until he got to his next class, and then only because his teacher had already threatened to take the notebook away three times that week. Sighing, John stumbled to his usual seat.

It took nearly an hour for the receptionist to process Sherlock's information, which made him miss his first lesson entirely. That annoyed him. A lot. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ to go to English, he could speak the language perfectly without any assistance, but the fact that she wasted so much time just _talking_. She was constantly asking unnecessary questions, where he grew up, his favourite band, even what he preferred to eat for breakfast and although he met each with the same cold, indifferent glare, she continued almost relentlessly.

John stared out of the window as usual, occasionally adding to the drawing in his sketchbook that he had hidden behind the blind. About twenty minutes into the lesson, the new kid from outside walked in, not bothering to knock. Sherlock glared at the teacher, who Beaming at him and hauled him in front of the rest of the class, who turned silent as they noticed him.

"Now, Class, this is... " she had to stop to ask him his name, frowning when she heard it. "That's unusual..." she muttered to him before turning back to the others. "_'Sherlock'_. He's new, so help him out, ok?" She ushered the grumbling new boy forward, inviting him to take a seat. Muttering angrily under his breath Sherlock marched to the only empty seat in sight, next to John.

As the new kid came over, John quickly stuffed the notebook behind the curtain fully; he didn't want to look like some freak, drawing strangers. Sherlock noticed his movements and smirked arrogantly as he relaxed in his chair, dumping his bag under the table. John smiled sheepishly and nudged under the table, holding out his hand. "John, Watson." Sherlock looked down at his hand, sniffed, then shook it a little hesitantly.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock looked John up and down before turning back to the front, disinterest plain on his face. A little self conscious and now irritated, John poked him a little harder.

"And _you_ are?"

"Sherlock. Holmes." The new boy didn't bother turning to look at John, just answering in a monotone. John huffed at him, exasperated, and sat in silence throughout the rest of their lesson, shooting Sherlock glares at every opportunity, who was oblivious as he scribbled into his own notebook.

The new boy wasn't in John's next lesson, history. As he made his way into the lunch hall after another unhelpful session with the teacher from hell, John saw Sherlock sitting in the corner. He was alone on his table, despite the crowds of students around all of the others. It seemed that the rest of the school had already decided that Sherlock wasn't exactly _friendly_. John bought a sandwich and reluctantly made his way over to Sherlock, rolling his eyes and muttering about how it was the only table with a seat left anyway. "So," he said, sitting with his back to the rest of the school, "what type are you then?" he smirked as Sherlock looked up at him, obviously confused. "You know, loner, tortured genius, rebel, or just dull?" Sherlock's eyes flicked back to the screen of his phone.

"Genius, but not tortured." He said, rather to nonchalantly for John's liking.

"_seriously_? I don't believe you..."

"Why not?" Sherlock turned his gaze onto John, his eyes darker than most people as he stared, unblinkingly.

"Because you, you just..." John mumbled away into nothing as he reluctantly realised that Sherlock _did_ seem like a genius, well, either that or a nutter anyway... As he turned his drifting attention back to the boy opposite, he realised Sherlock was waiting for his full attention.

"how eloquent. Don't believe me? Fine. Take a look around you, John, what do _you_ know about the people you waste the majority of your life with? Maybe that one of them is your neighbour, or that your P.E teacher in year seven is married to your second cousin, but nothing important. For example, take that teacher there," Sherlock was speaking very fast now, barely pausing for breath as he indicated to their English teacher at the back of the room."Mr Thrickson. He's only taught you for a few months, you barely know his name, but I've learnt more in this moment, this _second_, than you would have this year. Want to know what? First, he has a tumour. Surprised? Ask him. He only found out this weekend, hasn't told his family yet." John's eyes flicked from Sherlock to the teacher, perplexed, "He better soon, he's only got a few months left, six at the most.. more? He has two children, two girls, both in primary school. He worries about their future, how they'll cope without him. He's a single parent, his wife left him six years ago, with a baby and a four year old." Sherlock glared at John after he had finished, but it soon changed to his usual smirk as he saw the look of awe on John's face. His mouth was even a little open, how quaint.

"...Whoa. That was...amazing." A grin spread across John's face, confusing Sherlock.

"really? That's not how people usually react..." he squinted slightly at John, as if trying to tell if he was trying to make fun of him.

"then what _do_ they say?"

"normally, '_piss off_.' " John burst out laughing, causing Sherlock to chuckle in spite of himself.

_End of chapter one_


	2. Chapter 2

The girl looked up at him, her crimson hair framing her face with soft curls,mixing with her deep blue eyes to form that picture-perfect beauty you can only find in fairytales and children's stories.

Such a shame it was an old photo.

Turning away from the dusty photo, James pulled out another box from the stack beside him and began rummaging through it, casually dropping frame onto the bare wooden floorboards as he did so. A rare smile tweaked at the corners of his lips when the glass smashed, and James even stopped looking just long enough to drop to his knees, scoop up a broken shard and slip it into his pocket.

After another hour of searching, James was interrupted for a second time, only now by the women herself. To say 'time had aged her' would, in James's opinion, have been an understatement as he felt a familiar rush of disgust as he glared up at her. Her hair had faded since the photo had been taken, now a greasy shade of grey, and her eyes were clouded and bloodshot. She'd ruined the rest of her face with surgery, her forehead and cheeks frozen into place while the rest of her skin was twisted into a permanent frown. It took a minute or so for James to fully realise she was shouting at him, and even then he didn't react. From experience, he'd learnt that if he ignored her long enough, she'd eventually give up and leave, so he remained hunched on a beam until his mother left him alone in the attic.

James Moriarty and his mother had lived alone together for most of his life, constantly moving from place to place because of her work. This time, they had moved into a new district of London, where she said they were going to stay permanently, not that he believed her. She'd already enrolled James at the local school, where he'd have to join halfway through the term. Brilliant. James didn't mind going to school initially, but to be in a room with so many idiots for six hours a day was just demeaning.

He was already late when he left for school, attempting to untangle his headphones as he ambled down the street. The walk was uneventful, with just the usual amount of skiving students hanging around outside, so James headed straight into the main school building and through to the headmaster's office, ignoring the receptionist waving him back. He swung open the door to the office, greeting the startled expression of Mr Wilberforce with a smirk. After a rather long lecture about manners and first impressions, the Headmaster handed a small stack of papers to James, who took them with out a word and left, a single headphone still blasting into his ear.

James casually made his way to his first class, history, and arrived 20 minutes late as he swung open the door silently and stepped inside.

"Heard of knocking?" the teacher gave him a wonky grin, "you're the new kid, right?" he spoke quickly, as if he was in a rush to finish the sentence. "Good, well take a seat over there, next to Greg." James did so, slinging his bag under the table just as the teacher beckoned to him again. "what did you say your name was?"

"James. Moriarty." He spoke loudly, catching the classes attention before ignoring them all anyway. The teacher, a little perplexed, took a few seconds to notice the silence before breaking it, laughing nervously.

"Great, well welcome to history, James..." Greg nudged him under the table, offering a hand.

"Hey, I'm Greg, Lestrade, you're James right?" James looked at the hand and smiled to himself before shaking it warmly, giving the boy a toothy grin.

"Yeah, James."

James had English next, but no idea where it was so he followed Greg from a distance, expecting them to be in the same class. A pair of other students, a snooty looking boy and rather smitten girl, greeted Greg warmly, and eventually the trio led James to the right place. The English teacher must have been History's polar opposite, a short fat woman who was shrewd and obtuse. As he walked in, she just stared at him for a minute or so before pointing to the only empty seat, at the back of the class. James was sat next to a tall, lanky looking boy who seemed far too old to be in school, let alone the same class. His chin was dotted with stubble and he had to hunch over to fit his knees under the table with out lifting it. James's eyes lit slightly as he studied the other boy, a grin tweaking at his lips.

"where'd you train?" his question caught the boy by surprise, but he didn't let it falter his blank expression.

"how'd you know?" James shrugged the question off.

"Oh c'mon, do I _really_ have to bother with details? What's your name, big boy?" James couldn't hold in the snicker that escaped his lips as the other boy's elbow fell off the edge of the table as he heard the new nickname.

"Sebastian, you?" James clicked his teeth thoughtfully.

"Sebastian? I'll call you Seb, snappier...I'm James." Sebastian chuckled in a deep tone,

"James? well I'll call you Jim, quicker." James frowned slightly, not sure if he liked being given a nickname, but it didn't look like he had a choice.

James strolled casually down the B block corridor, in no rush for his biology class. His eyes flicked from each of the small windows through the classroom doors to the next, watching teachers starting their lessons and the occasional student mucking about. How boring they all were. Although he'd only joined Shargridge Academy a few days before, James already knew how each teacher ticked, their weaknesses, what they did as a hobby. No surprising ones. Nothing special. just dull. He'd heard about the other new boy coming, but other than that each day was the same now, since he'd got Thrickson under his thumb anyway. Wasn't hard, not really. All it seemed to take was offering treatment, a way out. Thinking about it, he realised it was easy, almost _too_ easy. Almost.


End file.
